In The Game
by Earwurm
Summary: This Transformer fanfic is set on Cybertron in Birgit Staebler's Sentinel universe. Sentinels have the ability to develop psychic links with Organic creatures through Interfacing.  Relationships between Interfaces and ordinary humans can be charged.
1. Chapter 1

This Transformer fanfic is set in Birgit Staebler's (Gryph's) Sentinel universe. Her stories are set after Generation 1, season 3, and describe the re-establishment of Transformer society under Optimus Prime on Cybertron. The Autobot and Decepticon factions have merged. Additionally, two other factions – the Sentinels and the Seekers (a different group from the G1 Seekers) have been brought into the fold. Sentinels (and Seekers) have the ability to develop psychic links with Organic creatures through a process called Interfacing. This pairing of robot with a unique Organic partner grants the robot superior strength and speed, and the Organic partner extended life.

Earth had become alienated from Cybertron. A few refugees from Earth have established themselves on the metal planet, but generally, contact between the two worlds is rare, and relationships are charged.

The main characters in this story are:

Kyle Scott: a humanoid (non-human) doctor, interfaced with the robot Voodoo. Kyle is six thousand years old, and has recently developed memory loss.

Steven Parker: humanoid (non-human), two thousand years old, interfaced with the robot Midnight.

Jill McKennan: humanoid (non-human), older than Scott, interfaced with the robot Skywolf

These characters belong to Gryph, and some of her many wonderful stories can be found under the name "Macx" here on FanfictionNet.

The other main character in this story in Gatchel, an ordinary human from Earth, whose most striking feature is that he's a pain in the ass.

Gatchel and Lelel belong to T. L. Arens (Koontah on DeviantArt).

Her stories involving the Interfaces, along with TF fic set in her own universe, are at Torq's Cafe.

* * *

><p>In The Game<p>

Part One

Steven Parker screamed again and lashed out at the nurse. Psychosis and the Interface link gave him superhuman strength – the woman was flung back several meters – a scratch raised a line of red beads along her cheek – and her head made an audible "crack!" when it hit the far wall. Steve screamed again, and from a farther room, Midnight screamed in sympathy. Scott winced; Voodoo twitched; Shanygn's eyes widened; and the big brown robot looked on with interest.

Gatchel sighed. "Restraints. Restraints. _Restraints_. Get the orderlies." He pointed in Jill's direction and wondered who was going to raise a voice in protest this time: Scott, Shanygn, or Voodoo? He reached into his pocket and flipped on his microtaser, just in case Shanygn decided to express her displeasure physically. Jill ran a scanner over the nurse, who was able to rise shakily to her feet. Together, they left to get the orderlies.

It was Voodoo who objected. "If you had listened to Kyle when we brought Parker in, Parker wouldn't be in this mess. Kyle told you it was a _K!doutl_." The robot spoke suddenly, rising from his position against the wall and looming over Gatchel. "He said it would attack the lining of the digestive system. He said that it would get in the bloodstream and that it might penetrate the blood-brain barrier." The robot pointed an enormous finger at the comparatively small human. "If you had half the skull of a _di-uhm_, asswipe, you would have – "

Gatchel almost took an involuntary step back, then gave himself a mental kick in the head. Metalloid Cybertronians might condescend to humans; they might be intimidating; they might bully and mock; but no Cybertronian, since the Armistice, had ever harmed a human. Yet.

"Look," he sneered, grinding out the words at the back of his throat in order to keep the waver of fear from his voice: "When your partner came in, he was crazy. Nuts. Looney. Round the twist. He was suffering from the effects of Parker's dementia through their psychic link." Gatchel grimaced in unfeigned disgust. "He was ranting and mumbling, and '_K!doutl_' was one of the few words we could pick up. A word, mind you, from a language that no one has spoken in over three thousand years, and from a culture located a third of the way across the galaxy. We hauled in a historical linguist as soon as we realized that he wasn't just ranting, and frankly, given what we had to work with, I think my medical team should be congratulated for figuring what the hell was going on! If we hadn't, we wouldn't have known enough to give the dramapactole to Scott, and that's all that's kept him from going bat-shit crazy so far."

Gatchel glanced at Scott, who was bent over Parker, quietly examining his partner in perversion – well, one of his partners in perversion, anyway. Gatchel looked up, and up, at the other one.

"Besides, where the hell were you? I though that Scott was your precious little pet. Why weren't you there to look after him?"

Voodoo's eyes flashed red behind his visor. He raised an enormous fist. Gatchel did jerk back this time, wondering if, at last, he had gone too far. Shanygn watched with amusement. The stocky dark brown robot, who had been standing quietly in the corner, shifted abruptly. It was at this point that Jill returned with the orderlies.

"I've brought in an extra 10 ccs of dramapactole," she said briskly. "That, along with the dose he's already taken, should knock him out."

The orderlies gently pushed Scott out of the way and arranged themselves around Parker's bed. Gatchel nodded at them. Grimly, they began to strap Parker down. Parker flailed and screamed, trying to jab at the orderlies' eyes with his fingers. From down the corridor, Midnight bellowed. Scott moaned and stumbled; Shanygn placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly into his ear. A headache began to develop in Gatchel's right temple. It was a completely new kind of headache, different from the customary throb at the left side of his nose. More of a variant on the ice-pick stab that sometimes penetrated the orbital of his right eye. Peachy.

After a few minutes, though, Jill's injection began to take effect, and Parker's breathing slowed and became regular. Gatchel ran a scanner over him, Systems had stabilized for now, but the underlying problem – the _K!doutl_ parasite – was still in the bloodstream. He was going to have to talk to Biochemistry. In his present condition Scott was going to be even less help than usual. Gatchel pocketed the scanner.

"Well?" prompted Voodoo snarkily. "So he's been tied up and traumatized. Six-to-one. Congratulations. What do you think is going to happen now?"

"It's just as you see," shrugged Gatchel. "He's stable for the moment, but the parasite is still there. My research team in Biochemistry and Neurology will examine Parker's medical history and revise what we know of the _K!doutl_ parasite. With any luck we'll come up with some sort of chelating agent that will cleave to the parasite and allow it to be flushed from Parker's system."

"I'll get to work on it," said Scott wearily.

"No, you won't," said Voodoo, flatly. "You're ill. You need rest. Jill and Skywolf can work on isolating the parasite. And there's got to be someone else in this hospital with half a skull who can understand what's going on."

"That would be me," said Gatchel. "Unless, of course, Dr. Scott the Wonder-Psychic" – Gatchel jerked his head at Scott's grey face – "is feeling well enough to whip up some magical potion. A potion made from the urine of unicorns raised in a fairyland dimension on a planet accessible only by warp gate. Then the two of you can fly in on a rainbow, and save Gotham city. In the meantime, I'll be in the Biochem lab."

Gatchel turned and made towards the door. "Don't drag me up here if Parker has another freak out. Unless he manages to kill someone off for real this time."

Stepping outside the room, he let out a deep breath. From inside, Shanygn's voice floated out towards him.

"Primus. How the hell does anyone manage to get to be such a planet-sized shithead?"

* * *

><p>Gatchel met Silverberg for the first time in late August. Expecting the Northwest to be cooler than the climate he was used to, he had overdressed for the heat. Besides, even though class wasn't scheduled to start for a week, there was the chance that he might run into one of his professors. But now, sweat trickled down his back, and his shirt collar was beginning to curl. He shifted the heavy plastic shopping bag carrying a stack of second-hand data pads and a (brand new!) stethoscope, and flung it over his shoulder, hoping to hide the sweat stains he was sure were running down his back. He wondered if the medical school building was air-conditioned, and began to head inside.<p>

"Hey!" A voice bellowed from across the parking lot. "Hey you! I know you! Over here!"

Gatchel shielded his eyes and squinted across the rows of cars. Lying on the hood of a flawless 430 Modena was a bronzed Adonis, shirtless, wearing flip-flops and cutoff jeans. Like everyone at home, no doubt. Next to him was a Nubian goddess in Daisy Dukes, with long, long, long legs stretching down almost to the license plate. She was grinning around the green popsicle stuck in her mouth. The Adonis grinned too, flashing a set of perfect teeth, and waved. Puzzled, and a little nervous, Gatchel headed towards them.

"You're Gatchel, right?" asked the Adonis. "I recognize you from our class website. First-year students all have their holograms up already. I'm Silverberg, and this lovely lady is Rokia." Rokia grinned again, and raised her sunglasses in salute.

Gatchel's tongue finally unstuck itself. "Nice to meet you." He reached over and offered a hand to Silverberg, then Rokia, who both shook it solemnly.

"So, Gatchel. What are you doing hanging around the Med Faculty a week early? You working on a project with one of the professors?"

Gatchel shook his head. "I've just come from the bookstore. I've got a bag full of datapads and equipment, and I was hoping someone in the medical building could give me my locker number so I could drop this stuff off. Assuming it would be safe in there."

Silverberg shook his head. "It wouldn't. Besides, there's no one in the front office. I came in from off-planet a week ago to get an early start on a project I've got set up with Medavoy. But no one's around except the med students. So tell me, Gatchel. Where are you from? What's your specialty?"

Gatchel grinned. "I'm from Asscrack, Texarkana. And I did my Master's in stats and xenoneurochemistry at Southwestern."

Silverberg whistled. "Wow. That's pretty impressive, particularly from a native asscracker. I myself have just wound up my PhD thesis defence on the interface between neurocellular systems and psychic phenomena in non-Phaedomic humanoids. Rokia, darling, you?"

"Namibia. Yale. Genetic correlates of haematological malignancies." Rokia slurped happily on her popsicle. "Dude. You look like you're going to die in that suit."

"You look way too hot, man," Silverberg agreed. "Take off your shirt and have a popsicle: they're lime bourbon."

Gatchel grimaced. The thought of exposing his lean, pasty torso next to those bronze bodies made him flinch.

"No, thanks," he said trying to sound casual. "I need to get back to my apartment and finish putting furniture together. See you both around, though."

"No problem, Gatchel," said Silverberg, and settled back comfortably against the windshield. "Take a popsicle before you go." Rokia giggled, and passed one over. Gatchel licked green syrup off his fingers and turned away.

"Later, Gatchel," called Silverberg. "I'll see you first week of class. Or if I don't, I'll look you up."

* * *

><p>Silverberg did look Gatchel up. No-one ever figured out why. Some thought that Gatchel's high score on the medical admissions exam might have caught Silverberg's attention. However, there were several students in their class who had scored even higher than Gatchel, and yet it was definitely Gatchel who attracted Silverberg's interest. Some suggested the converse: even a brilliant, wealthy, worlds-travelling sophisticate like Silverberg needed a foil. Why not a Texarkana non-entity like Gatchel? Yet, again, there were other students in the class even duller than Gatchel. Gatchel, although quiet enough, had a tendency, when pushed, to biting displays of temper that prevented him from developing the role of Silverberg's yes-man. Not that flashes of sourness ever bothered Silverberg: he would just laugh, and clap Gatchel on the back.<p>

In fact, very little appeared to worry Silverberg. He seemed to float above the tension and the petty politics of medical school with ease, convivial with everyone, his demeanor never ruffled. Stressing over the weekly exams and many quizzes was not for him: two solid hours of studying each evening appeared to be all he needed. The rest of his time, when he was not organizing some charitable drive, was spent starring on the basketball court, or in the lab. Eighteen months into the programme he had his name on five articles submitted to top journals. Gatchel, who had managed to get his name on only one, never even considered being envious. The comparison would have been too ridiculous, like a fly measuring himself against an eagle. Or against one of the Aerialbots.

* * *

><p>Gatchel sighed, pulled off his glasses and tossed them on his desk, then pinched the bridge of his nose. His vision had begun to blur. That slice of space opera in Parker's room had been followed by a one hour interview with two distraught parents whose three-month-old baby had just been diagnosed with progressive neurological disease. Next had come a marathon two-hour session with a family whose matriarch had been identified with early onset Alzheimer's, and which to date had proven resistant to conventional treatment. One of the residents had raised the possibility of excising damaged tissue and replacing it with cybernetic implants, and all hell had broken loose. Preliminary reports from the Neurobiochemistry division with respect to Parker's case had then arrived. Initial attempts to find a neutralizing agent that would bind to the parasite had shown mixed results. The synthetic agent was binding to antigens in the digestive lining, and these could be flushed out of the system easily enough. However, the agent was not able to penetrate the blood-brain barrier. Dr. Scott was now under heavy sedation, and could not offer suggestions. Jill and Skywolf were working on the problem, but their expertise was in the area of biophysical and cybernetic psychic phenomena, not in neurochemistry or parasitology per se. What did Dr. Gatchel suggest?<p>

Gatchel wanted nothing more than to lie down on his office carpet and sleep for half an hour. Instead, he settled for rhythmically pounding his scanner against his desk. The physical-engineering sector kept on upgrading the scanner specs, which left every Organic in the hospital who did not possess a computer science degree in a permanent state of bemused catch-up. Gatchel had taken to using his scanner as a stress toy. It wasn't as if he could damage it, after all: the things were designed to withstand accidentally being stepped on by enormous robots. The scanner beeped in protest at the mistreatment, and Gatchel threw it against his office door…

…just as it opened to reveal a half-alien woman with a gaping mouth and a newly formed welt across her nose.

"Wha…? wha…?" she burbled.

Gatchel lost no time, but jumped up and hustled her inside, sending a quick glance up and down the corridor. Good, no one there. He shut the door, guided the alien woman to a chair, picked up the scanner, and began to heal the abrasions. The woman was silent for a minute, then wiped away a tear.

"Dr. Gatchel," she began, "what happened? I tried knocking, but there was a pounding noise inside and I guess you didn't hear me. I came to ask you about Dr. Scott. I know he's sick and he hasn't answered any of my calls. I've been so worried! Can you please tell me how he's doing?"

Something in Gatchel's brain clicked. Lelel. Of course. That was her name. The creepy half-alien woman was obsessed with the Interfaces, and particularly with Scott. She followed him everywhere, pestering him for interviews, offering massages. She must have been thrilled when she'd heard about Scott's psychic link with Parker. The homoerotic subcontext of their relationship was every fan girl's wet dream.

"Ms. Lelel, you know I can't discuss Dr. Scott's health with you," he said as patiently as possible. "That would be breaking confidentiality.

"Oh, I don't want you to break confidentiality," she assured him earnestly. "I just want to know how he is."

"Ms. Lelel, really. I can't take about Dr. Scott when he's not here. You have his number. I'm sure he'll return your calls when he can. He's just got a lot to deal with right now."

The half-alien woman nodded, and her eyes filled with tears again. "I know. It's just that… I admire him so much, Dr. Gatchel. Dr. Scott and the Interfaces, they're like superior beings, almost, like angels. Nobody understands them either. I wish…"

Gatchel fought with the urge to give her another smack across the nose. "Really, Lelel. I'm sure that Dr. Scott would be the first to say that he puts on his pants one leg at a time, just like the rest of us," he lied. "In the mean time, I'm very, very busy with a case. I'm sure that you understand how important it is for me to get back to work, hm?"

"Of course! Oh… I didn't mean… I just wish I could help! I've taken all the way up to Organic Chemistry 4 and I got an A minus in Organic 3! If Dr. Scott let me volunteer on his medical team I know I could be really useful!" Lelel wailed. "And my nose still really hurts!"

Jesus Christ. He couldn't kick her out of his office in the state she was in now. She'd wander around the hospital wailing until she bumped into someone willing to listen to her story of how she'd gotten clocked in the face by the head of Organics Division. On the other hand, an abstract, non-personalized description of Steve Parker's problem would a) retain confidentiality and might b) flatter her ego, while c) boring her enough that she might leave his office of her own accord.

"Why, Lelel," he began, smoothly enough, "I didn't know you were such a chemistry buff. The problem we're dealing with is a bit knotty, but you might provide some insight. Right now, we're dealing with a situation in which a parasite has passed through the blood brain barrier. We've got an agent with relatively high pka – it's charged at blood-level pH – that can bind to the antigen and neutralize it. However, as long as the agent is charged, it can't pass through the cell membranes that make up the blood brain barrier. So when it's charged, it can't get onto the brain. Yet, when the agent is uncharged, it won't bind to the parasite. So you see, we have something of a dilemma here." Gatchel gave her his best conspiratorial smile and patted her on the shoulder.

Lelel was deep in thought. "Can we inject the agent directly into his brain?"

Gatchel noted the 'we'. "No, Lelel. 'We' – meaning the physicians here at the hospital – don't inject drugs directly into our patients' brains. We like to leave our patients' brains unaerated."

"Well, can you teleport the drug in?"

Gatchel's thin patience was starting to slip. "No. We can't teleport it in. This isn't Star Trek. Are you feeling better? Because it's probably time for you to go."

Lelel stood up. "What about a second drug? One that could stick onto the first drug once they've both gone through the blood brain barrier. The second drug could protonate the first drug once they're both in the brain, and the first drug could bind to the parasite."

"No, I don't think that would work, said Gatchel absently, starting to push her to the door. "And Lelel… I should explain about what happened earlier and how you got your nose bumped. Normally I have a basketball hoop over my door but I forgot it wasn't there and I threw my scanner at the door because I lost my basketball only you opened the door just at the wrong moment ha ha and so you can see it was just an accident and there's absolutely no need for you to tell anyone about this misunderstanding. Ha ha."

Lelel looked confused. "No, there isn't. I mean, I don't have to tell anyone. Besides, my nose has stopped hurting. Thanks for the … well, thank you, Dr. Gatchel. I guess."

The door finally shut behind her. Gatchel, at long last, breathed a sigh of relief, and sat down at his desk. He glanced once more at the last page of Parker's lengthy file. He had a distant nagging feeling. Something someone had said recently about Parker's parasite and the drug delivery problem. What was it? A wisp of a thought floated across his brain…

* * *

><p>To be continued.<p>

Note: Some of the Biochemistry in this section drew on the work of Nicholas Bodor


	2. Chapter 2

This Transformer fanfic is set in Birgit Staebler's (Gryph's) Sentinel universe. Her stories are set after Generation 1, season 3, and describe the re-establishment of Transformer society under Optimus Prime on Cybertron. The Autobot and Decepticon factions have merged. Additionally, two other factions – the Sentinels and the Seekers (a different group from the G1 Seekers) have been brought into the fold. Sentinels (and Seekers) have the ability to develop psychic links with Organic creatures through a process called Interfacing. This pairing of robot with a unique Organic partner grants the robot superior strength and speed, and the Organic partner extended life.

Earth had become alienated from Cybertron. A few refugees from Earth have established themselves on the metal planet, but generally, contact between the two worlds is rare, and relationships are charged.

The main characters in this story are:

Kyle Scott: a humanoid (non-human) doctor, interfaced with the robot Voodoo. Kyle is six thousand years old, and has recently developed memory loss.

Steven Parker: humanoid (non-human), two thousand years old, interfaced with the robot Midnight.

Jill McKennan: humanoid (non-human), older than Scott, interfaced with the robot Skywolf

These characters belong to Gryph, and some of her many wonderful stories can be found under the name "Macx" on FanfictionNet.

The other main character in this story in Gatchel, an ordinary human from Earth, whose most striking feature is that he's a pain in the ass.

Gatchel and Lelel belong to T. L. Arens (Koontah on DeviantArt).

Her stories involving the Interfaces, along with TF fic set in her own universe, are at Torq's Cafe.

* * *

><p>In The Game<p>

Part Two

Whatever the reason for Silverberg's interest in Gatchel, the friendship lasted through medical school and well into residency. Anyone who wanted Silverberg and Rokia at a party or in a study group was expected to issue an invitation to Gatchel, too. Silverberg's family connections, and his gift for getting along with people, opened doors for Gatchel that otherwise would have remained firmly shut. Medical school for Gatchel was followed by a firm offer to a top-notch residency programme. Of course, residency brought its own challenges. However, Gatchel learned, for the most part, to enjoy his work. His first year was a whirlwind of confusion and inadequacy, but eventually, piece-by-piece, a system began to emerge from the chaos, and he found he was able to anticipate problems before they happened. Once the initial panic subsided, he found he enjoyed interacting with his patients. Night shifts, especially, when the loud noises of daytime trauma were pushed back into the darkness by circles of calm created by lamps next to bedsides and over the nurses' workstations… . But daylight would come eventually, bringing with it a new round of activity, and bloodshed.

Not that it seemed to disturb Silverberg. Even in residency, Silverberg retained his poise. The most heartwrenching cases of injury and illness left him unfazed. The newly deaf and blinded young mother of three – the now permanently mute and drooling business man – the congenitally quadriplegic eight-year-old boy: these might raise waves of shame and anger in the other residents – but Silverberg himself seemed immune. Other residents might indulge in sick humour or high-handed moralizing at the expense of the patients: Silverberg never did. He treated all patients with the same assurance and grave courtesy.

Gatchel remembered that eight-year-old boy in particular. He was a frequent visitor to Paediatrics. Reaching his bedside meant navigating a maze of tubes and wires: the gastrointestinal tube for his nose, tubes for his IVs, one for his groin. His IV had dislodged, and after a dozen attempts at re-inserting it, the freshly qualified nurse was on the edge of tears. It was the new resident's turn. The boy had held up bravely until that point, but when the looming figure of Gatchel had approached him, needle in hand, the boy had begun to scream. His head had thrashed from side-to-side, and his semi-functional right arm flailed. Gatchel had reached out and caught his right forearm, delicate as a moth's leg, while the boy moaned and grunted. Gatchel had stood helplessly, shaken, mumbling nonsense in what he had hoped was a soothing voice, trying without success to calm the boy.

Silverberg, passing by, and attracted by the noise, had taken in the situation at a glance. He had swiftly approached the other side of the bed, and placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Jesus, kid, this is lousy. Look me in the eye and tell me this isn't lousy," Silverberg's said, his tone friendly. "But you've been really brave so far. You're going to get it under control." The boy stopped flailing, and listened.

"You can do this, buddy," continued Silverberg, "let me take your arm… ." He leaned over and lifted the boy's wrist, smoothly took the needle from Gatchel, then expertly inserted it into the boy's hand.

Gatchel hadn't commented. A few hours later, though, he had run into Silverberg again on the wards, and had cracked a mildly xenophobic joke to ease his tension and lift his spirits. Silverberg had calmly corrected him, not with any air of superiority, but firmly, and almost compassionately. Gatchel hadn't made that mistake again.

Generally speaking, though, disagreements between the two of them were rare. Gatchel tended to keep his normally confrontational nature in check around Silverberg. Around Silverberg, he found it easy. He also found it easy to speak openly to Silverberg – without fear of judgement – easier than it had ever been before in his life. Silverberg himself did not seem to require a confidant.

Except, perhaps, for one evening in May, when they were both sitting outside on the balcony of Silverberg's apartment after dinner. Gatchel was lounging back, half asleep, with a belly full of pasta and _vino verde_. Silverberg, glass of wine in hand, feet propped up on the balcony railing among the geraniums, began to talk. Not the usual recitation of exotic places and people that Gatchel could only half-visualize. Instead of his usual smooth cadences, Silverberg's tone was wistful, longing, "… and they live forever, can you imagine? Living a hundred lifetimes, having to leave everything behind … home … family… your species … but not really caring, because there would always be a new lifetime, new people to look forward to. And to be strong like that, living in a robot body … there's so much weakness at the hospital … but these people are immortal … flying among the stars ... never alone… ."

"—and you want to do this?" asked Gatchel stupidly, feeling wide awake all of a sudden, wondering if he had dreamt the whole thing. "How?"

"Interfacing," answered Silverberg calmly. "There are labs on this planet working on it. It's all being kept quiet, of course. But I don't want to stay on Earth. I want to go to Cybertron. That's where the Sentinels and the Interfaces live. An interface occurs when a Sentinel or Seeker Transformer joins to an Organic in a psychic link. From that point on, their souls are forever joined, and they can never be separated – at least, not until one of them dies. They're more than mortal … together, they're superhuman… ."

"And you want to go to Cybertron to do this!" shrieked Gatchel. Silverberg was clearly deranged, but Gatchel couldn't help being impressed by the magnificent scale of his ambitions. Currently, the extent of Gatchel's ambitions consisted of getting a fellowship back home, at Southwestern. Or maybe Baylor. Providing he passed his pathology practicum on Monday.

Silverberg nodded. "For years now. I actually met one of the Cybertronian human Interfaces on Elora. I mean, I saw him from a distance. He disappeared into the body of his robot partner – just like that – like magic. And the way that robot could move! Not like the ridiculous clunk you see in historical footage. Faster than light and as graceful as smoke. He and the robot had just fought off an invasion of Nathemic slave traders. People on the planet talked about them as though they were God. That's why I got into research in neurocytology and psychic phenomena. I know one of them is a doctor… ."

"But … but," gaped Gatchel feebly, "How are you going to get to Cybertron? We've had almost no interaction with them for decades. And what are you going to do once you get there?"

"There's still some back and forth between Earth and Cybertron. Optimus Prime is interested in keeping the lines of communication open, and Earth wants to keep up with new developments in Cybertronian politics and technology. Right now, there's a chief residency position opening up in the Organics wing of that massive hospital they have up there, and they want human applicants – Terran applicants, I mean – in particular."

"And you're going to apply?" Gatchel asked weakly, aware that he was not contributing much to the discussion, but not really sure what he could do about it.

"I figure I should be the front-running candidate," answered Silverberg coolly, "especially since that project I've been working on should have gone through the review process by then. By the way, I've been meaning to ask you to take a look at that. Your stats background might be helpful, add some polish. And you might want to consider applying to the Cybertronian chief residency position yourself. It'll be good practice for you, and it'll get your name out to the kinds of people who should know it. It's getting pretty dark. Hand me your plate, will you?"

* * *

><p>Gatchel put down the data pad and reached for his coffee.<p>

"Can I have another look at the layout of the model in the program?" he asked Sandi.

"Sure," she nodded. "It's relatively straightforward point-and-click graphical interface. We were really more worried about the bootstrapping. Dr. Silverberg is going to run everything by a professional statistician, but we were hoping you might catch any major problems before we sent it over. We want to look good!"

Gatchel smiled. "You really like working here, don't you?"

Sandi nodded again. "It's a great lab. Everyone gets along. And the paradigm we're working on … it's mind-blowing. It'll completely revolutionize the field. I'm more into the physics' end of things myself, which Dr. Silverberg really appreciates, because he's got a mostly medical background. He says he's going to put me as third author on the paper."

Gatchel scanned the source code. Everything looked alright. Covariance matrices… eigenvalues… everything within normal parameters. Trust Silverberg. Gatchel's own data sets invariably contained outliers that no amount of headpounding could explain away.

"Sandi, do you mind if I look at the raw data tables and the medical reports?"

"No problem," she said, and clicked on the desktop, then typed in a password. "All the medical files are here, identifying information redacted. Data tables are here. Ethics submissions are over here. The latest draft of the manuscript is here… ."

Gatchel started with the project overview in the ethics submission. He moved onto the medical files. Then onto the raw data. Then onto the unpublished manuscript. Then back to the medical reports. Then back to the raw data. And again to the manuscript – the results section. Then back to the raw data. Then back to the medical reports.

Sandi grew bored. "Dr. Gatchel, do you need me for this? Because if you don't, I'm going next door to scan some slides into our database."

Gatchel jerked his head away from the monitor. "What? Uh, sure, Sandi. I'm fine right here."

Left alone, he began to flip through the documents in chronological order. After another twenty minutes or so, he realized that it was hopeless: there was just too much information. He hesitated, staring worriedly into space. Then he pulled out his data traveller. The sound of Sandi shuffling around came from the next room. Gatchel stuck his traveller into the computer port and pressed "copy" on the project folders. Once finished, he removed the traveller and stuck it back into his pocket. He hesitated again. Then he inputted commands to clear the computer log of the most recent set of instructions.

Gatchel stood up, pulled on his jacket, and went next door. Sandi looked up from her desktop.

"Did you get everything you need?" she asked brightly.

"I think so. You can tell Dr. Silverberg that the statistical output looks just fine. I'd appreciate it, though, if you could email me a copy of the processed results."

"No problem," said Sandi. "I'll do that as soon as I've cleared it with Dr. Silverberg. The other stuff – like the raw data – and the patients' files – they can't leave the lab, though."

"I know," said Gatchel, "Thanks, Sandi."

* * *

><p>It was late. Not that the term meant much by Cybertronian standards. The planet was always locked in gloom. The only light came from buildings or lamps overhead, or from deep illuminated crevasses, over which hung suspended a tangle of streets and bridges. But the "day" shift was over; the sleep cycle for most Organics had started hours ago. On Earth, in North America, it was night. Gatchel liked this time of day best. Quiet, and few interruptions. He had been able to work steadily for several hours. But he was tired at last, and was heading home. With any luck he would make it out of the hospital and back to his apartment without anyone making further demands on him. He stepped off the moving platform, about 50 meters from one of the hospital side-exits, and breathed a sigh of relief. When –<p>

"Dr. Gatchel, could you wait a moment, please?" called a voice.

Gaychel turned. Scott, and a large brown robot. He was surprised. He knew that the anti-parasitic agents he had proposed had proven effective. At last report, Parker had regained a measure of sanity, and some control over the psychic link between himself and Scott had been re-established. Scott had been weaned off the dramapactole and discharged from the hospital. But Scott wasn't exactly the kind of doctor to work late. What was he doing here?

"I need to speak to you," said Scott, "this is important. Do you have a minute?"

"Well, I –" began Gatchel, with as much attitude he could muster through his fatigue.

"Great," interrupted Scott. "Let's go in here for some privacy." He unceremoniously took a firm hold of Gatchel's arm and, ignoring Gatchel's sputtering, led him into a nearby room that Gatchel hadn't even known existed. The large brown robot followed silently.

Once inside, Scott closed the door and motioned for Gatchel to take a seat on one of the human-sized benched lining the wall. Aggravated, Gatchel shook his head, and remained standing. The robot sat down against the wall and brought his knees up to his chin. Scott shrugged his shoulders and began to pace back and forth.

"First of all," he said. "I want to thank you for your help in dealing with the _K!doutl_ parasite. The idea of using one drug to activate the second, antibacterial agent was simple, but very effective. The choice of reactive esters was also fairly astute, although personally, I wonder if you might have considered…"

"Is this what you dragged me in here for?" asked Gatchel. "I'm too damn busy for this crap. Send me an e-mail."

Scott stopped pacing. "No," he said quietly. "That's not why I wanted to talk to you. I want to talk to you because there has been some bad blood between you and me – between you and us Interfaces, really – and I want to do something about it."

Gatchel suddenly felt very, very tired. "Where are you going with this? Because I have no problem with the current situation, as long as you remember that I am head of the Organics wing of this hospital, not you."

"I was reminded today," Scott continued, ignoring him, "I was reminded that the situation isn't easy for you, either. Earth is something of a hermit planet. Short-lived population, fairly homogeneous as far as species is concerned, little contact with Cybertron. It must have been… difficult… for you to have been plunged into such a foreign environment… and intimidating to run a hospital, giving orders to older, more experienced, better educated subordinates…"

Gatchel's slow burn, which had been building over the last few minutes, burst into flame. "Jesus f-cking wept!" he shouted, spitting in his rage, "is this why you dragged me in here? To reel off my supposed failings, and throw them in my face? Well you can go to hell, the lot of you Interfaces, I…"

"No, no!" pleaded Scott, waving his hands, "_listen_. I came to tell you that I _understand_. Ever since I lost my memory – all six thousand years of my life – I've been surrounded by people who know me better than I know them. I work every day with friends whose faces I don't even recognize. I'm always at a disadvantage. _I know what it's like_."

Gatchel looked at his feet, and said nothing.

"We each have something to offer the other," said Scott. "Can't we put our past problems behind us? Don't you think we'd be better off trying to help each other? By working together? Don't you think it would be better that way?"

* * *

><p>continued<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

The door was slightly ajar. Gatchel hesitated, then gave a loud rap.

"Come in!" the voice called, and Gatchel pushed open the door to the Dean's office. "Please shut the door behind you. Shut it _firmly_, please."

Gatchel did as he was told. Then he faced Dr. Seth, head of the Faculty of Medicine. It was like being summoned into the presence of God.

"You asked to see me, Dr. Seth? I'm not sure what it's about, though."

Seth looked at him coolly. "You aren't? Really? Take a seat, Dr. Gatchel."

Gatchel took a seat. She stared at him, then, held up to his gaze a data pad showing a spreadsheet with columns of numbers and a few figures. She scrolled through it. The figures looked very familiar. Gatchel, already damp, began to sweat profusely.

"These files were sent to me two weeks ago," she said pensively, starring at the datapad, "from an unmonitored computer in a public Internet Café via an e-mail account registered under a pseudonym. The files contain highly confidential information from a clinical trial headed by a friend of yours, a Dr. Silverberg."

Gatchel swallowed. He felt dizzy.

"When we examined the files carefully," continued Seth, "we noticed some striking discrepancies between the raw data and the reported outcomes. There were inconsistencies in the patient files. When we contacted the primary physicians of some of the patient participants we were very saddened to learn that many of them weren't doing as well under Dr. Silverberg's treatment as reported. Six had died, eight were experiencing various degrees of partial paralysis, fourteen with tachycardia, well, you get the picture. I don't want to bore you."

She flung the datapad down on her desk.

"Thank God we caught this before it went out to review. Aside from the patient suffering caused by this little project, the publicity when this got out would have been ruinous for programme funding. The situation's bad enough as it is. There's going to be an investigation, of course – everyone in that lab will be put through the wringer. Jail time, possibly, and re-education, certainly. We should be able to keep the worst of it under wraps, though. Why did he do it?"

"He wanted to go Cybertron. He wanted the Chief Residency position at their hospital," said Gatchel, shakily. There was no point in trying to protect Silverberg now. "He thought this study would nail it."

Seth nodded. "That's the impression we got when we talked to him. I don't know what he was thinking. He wouldn't have been able to keep this to himself for long. There would have been an audit once it was published, or there would have been a follow-up study at another university. Of course, he would have been on Cybertron by the time we figured things out. What a shame. I liked him."

"I thought he was brilliant," said Gatchel, around the great, heavy pit in his stomach.

"Oh, he is brilliant. Certainly much cleverer than you. I've read your file. I don't know what happened. He had that job in the bag. That publication would have been the icing on the cake, but it certainly wasn't necessary. Do you know what he said when we confronted him?"

Gaskell shook his head dumbly.

"He said, 'I knew my conclusions had to be right. The research assistants must have screwed up the data collection, that's all.' "

Seth sighed, and leaned back in her chair.

"I've been running clinical trials for thirty years. You know what? I've seen all sorts of people pull all sorts of dirty tricks in medicine. I've stopped being surprised. But, generally speaking, it's the really brilliant ones that screw up big time. The slower ones – that's you – may tweak a few points – may "forget" to add in a few references – but it takes a certain type of creative genius to bullshit out an entire data set. It requires an arrogance, I suppose, that the mediocre just don't have. I doubt that Silverberg even understood the implications of what he did. If reality wasn't matching up to his expectations, then, according to him, it was due to a flaw in reality, not a flaw in his reasoning. The problem is, even the Silverbergs of this world don't know everything."

She was silent for a minute, and Gatchel decided to risk speaking.

"Sir, does this mean – ?"

"He also had that weird obsession with Interfaces," continued Seth, ignoring him completely. "– those freaks on Cybertron who are mind-linked to robots. He wouldn't shut up about them. Maybe he doesn't find being human enough of a challenge? I don't know. As for you and me, we're only human. We can't be afraid to be petty. We're not guaranteed love and we're not guaranteed respect. It's fight, fight, fight constantly, and there is no fifty foot robot to fly in and save you and me when we get in over our heads. And there are no second chances for us – we've got about eighty years to do what we want to do and that's all we're going to get. _You_ are going to get the position on Cybertron. Chief Resident of Organics wing at Central Hospital on Cybertron – it's all yours."

She paused, and started at Gatchel expectantly. Gatchel took a few seconds to catch up.

"Sir! I don't want the position on Cybertron!" he yelled, horrified. "I only applied there because I thought Silverberg was going to get it!"

"I know," grinned Seth, "too bad. You're perfect. You're a reasonably competent doctor, honest occasionally, fairly astute politically, and you don't indulge in flights of fancy. Certainly, you'll never fall in love with Cybertron. Earth can count on your loyalty. And it'll keep you out of our hair and away from the media during our investigation. We'll expect reports periodically on certain individuals… nothing too onerous, or invasive. A few medical files, maybe. But this is a long-term project. We'll let you know."

Gatchel realized that his mouth had fallen open. He shut it.

"How long?" he ventured feebly.

"Now, now, Dr. Gatchel," said Seth, standing up. "No point in getting ahead of yourself. And try to summon up some enthusiasm. Think about it! Travel! Aliens! Flying robots!"

She held out her right hand.

Numbly, Gatchel stood up and shook it without thinking.

She smiled at him beatifically.

"Congratulations, Dr. Gatchel. You're going to be very happy."

* * *

><p>Gatchel looked at Scott. He opened his mouth to make the automatic rejection. He stuttered for a moment, and then was silent. He thought of all the times he had egged Scott on, purposely indulging in crass or ugly behaviour. He thought about his many xenophobic remarks. He thought of the snide comments, and the sly attempts at character assassination he had made behind Scott's back. He thought about the insults, and the physical punches he had thrown – which had served nothing other than to make himself look ridiculous.<p>

Then he thought about the Interfaces and their robots. He thought of all the times his questions had been ignored, or dismissed as irrelevant. He thought of the many orders that had been barked at him. He thought of how often obedience had been assumed and explanations had been denied. He thought of the many times the Interfaces had invaded Earth airspace, leaving fear and chaos behind. He considered the arrogance, the unconscious air of superiority. He wondered, for a moment, if it would be worth sitting down, and spending the next hour or so trying to explain this to Scott.

But Scott was six thousand years old. He would have an answer for every point that Gatchel made. He had heard it all before. Gatchel had no more chance of changing Scott's mind than a floating chip of wood had of altering the course of a great river. But Gatchel wasn't a piece of wood. He was a person. And the Interfaces had taken too much of his life already.

"No, Dr. Scott," he said firmly. "I'm not interested in working with you."

Scott's face was unreadable. "Why?"

"You're not worth my time," said Gatchel, clearly. "You're not human. You're not playing our game. There's no risk for you. How can you sympathize? Fears of age, of betrayal by our loved ones, of ignorance, and loss, and loneliness, and dying. We breathe in these fears every day. We live in them like a fish in water. But they mean nothing to you."

"I don't understand – " began Scott.

"I know you don't," said Gatchel. And he left.

"That wasn't what I meant! Let me finish!" Scott called after him. But Gatchel was gone.

* * *

><p>Gatchel never did find out what happened to Silverberg. As he hurried home in the deep night, his path picked out by lamps lit hundreds of meters overhead, he wondered once again what might have happened to him. Rokia, he knew, was currently heading the Panini Institute in New Delhi. They kept in contact, but she seemed as mystified as to Silverberg's whereabouts as he was. Probably locked up in the bowels of the Earth in some billion-credit facility having cybernetic implants drilled into his skull. Or perhaps drilling cybernetic implants into someone else's skull. Or plotting a takeover of Cybertron on Betazed. Or else sitting around in a longhi in Mozambique, teaching pottery to quadriplegics. Christ, who knew. Walking home amid a maze of straight lines and perfect right angles, his eyes began to ache. Like kittens raised in a box painted in vertical lines only, Gatchel's brain was being moulded by his environment. Someday he would go home, and he would be plunked down in the middle of a green park, and he would be completely unable to navigate his way through it. Or he would see each tree and blade of grass in sharp angles, like some cubist nightmare. Silverberg would have eaten this shit up, no doubt.<p>

His stomach lurched. Moments like this gave him the feeling of being an actor in someone else's fantasy. As if, for example, through some evildoing on his part, he had managed to usurp Silverberg's destiny, and was playing the starring role in Silverberg's life, instead of in his own. Whose face would he see in the mirror when he woke up tomorrow? Gatchel shivered, and quickened his pace.

Home, finally. He punched in the code, angled his head for the retinal scan, and once inside, threw his briefcase onto the sofa. In the kitchen he pulled a salad out of the fridge, then went back to the sofa, and threw himself down next to his briefcase. He leaned back and gazed at the ceiling. His apartment was small by Cybertronian standards – still large enough for a football rally – but he had chosen it with an eye to cutting down on a particular type of potential visitor. He closed his eyes. Music from the wave player in the corner wafted across the room.

_"You want me to forget, pretend we've never met._

_And I've tried and I've tried, but I haven't yet._

_You walk by, and I fall to pieces."_

Pain stabbed again at his right temple. He swore, and raised himself labourously off the couch to get an analgesic from the kitchen. Halfway there the doorbell rang. He swore again, and changed course. His vision was starting to blur.

He opened the door to his apartment and stared way up at the indistinct brown mass.

"You again? Jesus. What do you want?"

The mass was silent for a moment, then folded itself in half. A large metallic face now hovered a meter or so above Gatchel's own. It looked… worried? Concerned? How could a robot face look like anything at all?

"Well, what?" Gatchel snapped.

The robot face hesitated. "Can I come in?"

"No. It's been a long day, and I saw enough at you at the hospital. What do you _want_?"

The robot hesitated again. "Gatchel," he said softly, gently, "Gatchel… we need to talk."

Gatchel's head swam, and for a moment his vision was split, as though he were looking down from above at his own ghostly face cowering against the doorframe. Dazed, he slipped, and banged his head against the frame's edge. He vision snapped back into place and he gaped in horror. He stepped back, trembling, and a giant hand reached out to catch him. Gatchel dodged, wheeled into his apartment, and slammed the door shut. He leaned back against the wall and tried to calm his breathing.

Shit. Shit. Shitty-shitty shitty-shitty. Shit. Shit. _Shit__._

* * *

><p>"I Fall to Pieces" was written by Hank Cochran and Harlan Howard<p>

Sung by Patsy Cline


End file.
